getting around £12,000 per year, which is fantastic for an 18-year-old, although pretty soon I start spending almost all of my wages on taxis.
My problem is that I don’t drive yet. I share a house with three other young guys – Chris Simpson-Daniel, brother of James, Mark Bentley and Charles Yeoman – and they all drive. They give me a lift to the club when they can, but I hate the feeling of putting them out. I definitely don’t want them to hang around after training while I do my kicking. So it becomes a bit of a strain. I constantly don’t ask, because I don’t want to, and I hate the fact that they might feel they have to help, or they should do. It’s a bit awkward.
The result is that my earnings go to the local taxi firm. I’m constantly on the move. I need cabs back from training, and I get £15 taxis to the gym in the evening to chill with a swim and a Jacuzzi, and then £15 taxis back. In an average week, I can spend £100 just on going to the gym. It’s lucky our membership is free.
But I won’t give in to asking for lifts and affecting everyone else’s lives just because mine happens to be so obsessive. I start travelling on foot. If Ineed to go somewhere, I’ll often walk or run there, even if it’s miles away. My most horrendous problem is the weekly shop. I run to the supermarket, a good mile and a half away, and I do my entire week’s shopping, six or seven full carrier bags’ worth, which I then carry back. The mile and a half home is torture – a quick burst of strongman walking for a hundred yards or so, then stop, put the bags down to save the tips of my fingers from falling off, get some feeling back in my hands, and then off again.
It is fairly clear – I need to pass my driving test.
My first impression of Steve Black comes from what I hear about him from the other players. Dean Ryan and Inga have such respect for him. But I’ve never heard of him. I’m surprised that a fitness conditioner is talked about like this. The message seems to be just do what the hell Blackie says and don’t piss him off.
My first sessions are on the exercise bikes. I train with the back-rowers and the nines and tens, and Blackie, this former boxer, sprinter, power-lifter and professional footballer with a big beard and a bigger Geordie accent, is in charge. Blackie says up the level on the bike and we do, but we don’t know for how long. Most fitness trainers would say for thirty seconds or a minute. He doesn’t do that; with Blackie you just get on with it. Mentally, it’s tough. People start muttering under their breath. It gets to the point where you’re looking for someone else to give up so that you can give up, too. But it’s inspirational. Blackie waits for everyone’s breaking point. He wants to know how we respond to challenges.
He chats during training, watching how we tick, how we train, how we prepare ourselves. He gets to know our bodies, but he also learns our hopesand dreams. And while we are pedalling, he is constantly in rugby, forever creating visual images and making us play the game out in our heads.
Right, he says, take it up to the maximum level. I want you pedalling at 110 revs-per-minute, you’re now sprinting back to help out in defence, you’re driving your legs in a tackle, up off the floor, what’s happening in front of you? Stay in the game, keep your head in the game. What can you see? What can you hear? What’s the next move? How can you contribute? Where do you need to be? It’s like match practice on bikes.
But it’s not a dictatorship. When you arrive, he asks how you are, how you feel, how you slept and how you’re eating. And he adapts accordingly.
The deal is simple and I understand what Dean and Inga were saying. You come here to give 100 per cent. It’s not acceptable if you don’t, and he makes your life a living hell if that’s the case. When Blackie lets fly at someone, it’s aggressive. You keep your head down, but really, you just
My problem is that I don’t drive yet. I share a house with three other young guys – Chris Simpson-Daniel, brother of James, Mark Bentley and Charles Yeoman – and they all drive. They give me a lift to the club when they can, but I hate the feeling of putting them out. I definitely don’t want them to hang around after training while I do my kicking. So it becomes a bit of a strain. I constantly don’t ask, because I don’t want to, and I hate the fact that they might feel they have to help, or they should do. It’s a bit awkward.
The result is that my earnings go to the local taxi firm. I’m constantly on the move. I need cabs back from training, and I get £15 taxis to the gym in the evening to chill with a swim and a Jacuzzi, and then £15 taxis back. In an average week, I can spend £100 just on going to the gym. It’s lucky our membership is free.
But I won’t give in to asking for lifts and affecting everyone else’s lives just because mine happens to be so obsessive. I start travelling on foot. If Ineed to go somewhere, I’ll often walk or run there, even if it’s miles away. My most horrendous problem is the weekly shop. I run to the supermarket, a good mile and a half away, and I do my entire week’s shopping, six or seven full carrier bags’ worth, which I then carry back. The mile and a half home is torture – a quick burst of strongman walking for a hundred yards or so, then stop, put the bags down to save the tips of my fingers from falling off, get some feeling back in my hands, and then off again.
It is fairly clear – I need to pass my driving test.
My first impression of Steve Black comes from what I hear about him from the other players. Dean Ryan and Inga have such respect for him. But I’ve never heard of him. I’m surprised that a fitness conditioner is talked about like this. The message seems to be just do what the hell Blackie says and don’t piss him off.
My first sessions are on the exercise bikes. I train with the back-rowers and the nines and tens, and Blackie, this former boxer, sprinter, power-lifter and professional footballer with a big beard and a bigger Geordie accent, is in charge. Blackie says up the level on the bike and we do, but we don’t know for how long. Most fitness trainers would say for thirty seconds or a minute. He doesn’t do that; with Blackie you just get on with it. Mentally, it’s tough. People start muttering under their breath. It gets to the point where you’re looking for someone else to give up so that you can give up, too. But it’s inspirational. Blackie waits for everyone’s breaking point. He wants to know how we respond to challenges.
He chats during training, watching how we tick, how we train, how we prepare ourselves. He gets to know our bodies, but he also learns our hopesand dreams. And while we are pedalling, he is constantly in rugby, forever creating visual images and making us play the game out in our heads.
Right, he says, take it up to the maximum level. I want you pedalling at 110 revs-per-minute, you’re now sprinting back to help out in defence, you’re driving your legs in a tackle, up off the floor, what’s happening in front of you? Stay in the game, keep your head in the game. What can you see? What can you hear? What’s the next move? How can you contribute? Where do you need to be? It’s like match practice on bikes.
But it’s not a dictatorship. When you arrive, he asks how you are, how you feel, how you slept and how you’re eating. And he adapts accordingly.
The deal is simple and I understand what Dean and Inga were saying. You come here to give 100 per cent. It’s not acceptable if you don’t, and he makes your life a living hell if that’s the case. When Blackie lets fly at someone, it’s aggressive. You keep your head down, but really, you just
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